Bishop's Song (27 page)

They pulled the truck
back into Grim’s driveway, navigating behind a surviving outbuilding to hide the truck. Bishop reclined in the driver’s seat, his burning eyes appreciating the opportunity to close.

“There
’s a well over there,” Grim announced. “Why don’t you crash for a bit, and I’ll bring up some water. I don’t know about you, but my outlook on life might improve if I could wash at least one layer of this road grime off my skin.”

Bishop
opened his eyes and adjusted the rearview mirror, the reflection seconding Grim’s observation. His face was filthy, his clothes tattered and soaked in the blood of the attackers and his late friend. “Whatever this Circus may be, it sounds as though there’s some sort of organization. It might do us both good to look a little more presentable if we’re going to be around polite society.”

The quiet countryside and mild temperature
were soothing, and soon Bishop nodded off.

His dreams were filled with
the sound of Terri’s laughter and images of playing with Hunter. Terri was setting out a picnic lunch while the guys were checking out the swings. The setting was park-like, a postcard pleasant Sunday afternoon. Deke was there too, enjoying the sunshine and mild breeze, laughing at the sight of the baby riding on Bishop’s shoulders while the two toured the grounds. Suddenly, the calm was interrupted by the contractor coughing up streams of bright, red blood. The sight frightened Hunter. Just as before, the dying man’s voice proclaimed his passing was okay, the same words repeated over and over again.

Gr
im’s voice brought him out of the deep sleep, a quick check of the light outside the cab verified by a glance at his watch. Bishop had actually been asleep for several hours.

“Holy sh
it,” he announced. “I didn’t intend on crashing for that long.”

Gr
im replied, “I went out like a light, too. We need to get moving, it will be dark in about an hour.”

The two men wasted no time preparing for the next leg of their adventure. Millington was only about 15 miles away, and Grim doubt
ed there would be any old traffic blockage on the rural route that meandered into the town.

They ate a quick meal, clean
ed their weapons, and did their best to wash the dried blood and grime from their clothing. Grim produced a needle and thread, displaying a deft hand stitching up some of the tears and rips suffered during the battle.

The sun was just
setting as they exited the driveway. The men rode in silence, unsure of what to expect as they traveled toward the small community.

Millington, Tennessee, had once been a pleasant, mid-sized city of approximately 10,000 residents. Like so much of the Volunteer State, the municipality had experienced growth in the decades leading up to the Second Great Depression.

Close enough to Memphis for commuters, the local leadership had struggled to
maintain prosperity while attempting to maintain a dose of small town charm. For this reason, the new retail mall had been built on the edge of town - a small benefit for the rescuers as they could avoid travel through yet another potentially dangerous urban area.

It soon became obvious why everyone called it the
Circus. The large parking lot of the once prosperous shopping destination was filled with campers, RVs and other miscellaneous civilian vehicles. Parked in a strategic formation designed to create a perimeter, they surrounded what was essentially a huge circus tent that had been erected in the open space.

Someone had str
ung Christmas lights, no doubt powered by a generator, into a complex webbing draped throughout the facility. The festive glow of the multicolored decorations reminded Bishop of Caribbean resorts trying to project a holiday atmosphere year-round.

Circling the establishment,
the two men studied both the patrons approaching the obvious entrances, and the significant security forces that were in plain view.

Every 30 yards, a man
stood on a camper top or other elevated perch, strategically placed like guard towers surrounded a prison – no approach was left unobserved. The newcomers noted two distinct entrances, gaps in the white barrier of the castle’s fortress-like bastions.

The entryways were clogged with humanity,
dozens of soldiers and civilians milling about while waiting to gain entrance to the facility. On their second orbit, Grim motioned for Bishop to slow down so he could read a large hand-lettered sign posted nearby the opening. It read, “No weapons beyond this point. No exceptions. All firearms and explosives devices must be checked.”

“Well that s
ucks,” proclaimed Grim.

“I wonder if they have a coat check
to go along with the weapons check?” Bishop commented, trying to bleed a little of the stress out of the cab.

“Actually, it makes sense.
It would be bad for business if a drunk trooper shot up the place every night. A zero tolerance firearm policy should help keep violence down to a minimum.”

Bishop had to agree, “Guns and booze don’t mix
. Never have, never will.”

The m
all’s expansive parking lot provided ample space for the multitude of both military and civilian vehicles used to transport soldiers and other patrons from nearby Memphis. At first, Bishop was hesitant for both of them to go inside as he did not want to leave the truck and its few remaining supplies unguarded, but the concern soon dissipated.

The presence of numerous armed
men, obviously acting in a security role to guard the military’s vehicles, alleviated Bishop’s fear. There was no sense in locking the truck, the shattered passenger window making the effort futile. After verifying their cargo was covered by the tarp, the two men proceeded to the entranceway.

The p
rocedure to gain access to the Circus reminded Bishop of passing through security for a pre-collapse airplane flight. Although they had joked about a coat check, the surrendering of their weapons was a similar process. A bored-looking man stationed behind the makeshift counter appeared not to even take notice of the make, model, or caliber of the firearms that he and Grim handed over. A piece of masking tape was wrapped around the stock of each weapon, a number handwritten with a black marker on each label. The clerk then copied down an identical set of digits onto small squares of paper, handing them over to the rescuers.

“Verify the numbers are the same,” the man
instructed.

Once they had
tested the gentleman’s copying skills, the two men from Texas proceeded to the next step required for entry.

After surrendering their firepower, they entered a section
comprised of large tables, no doubt “salvaged” from a local church or community center. There were several rows, each having a queue of customers waiting to exchange goods for what amounted to the local currency.

Bishop had been wondering how it all worked, and it was no surprise to find a system in place that mimicked
Meraton’s market back home.

He watched
, fascinated as customers bartered with the employees seated at the tables. One man had two chickens in a wire cage, another soldier offering ammunition carried in a zip-lock plastic bag. People carried all sorts of boxes, bags and other containers filled with valuables.

Taking the shortest line, the rescuers patiently waited for the soldier in front of them to negotiate his trade. The young private
set a pair of boots on the table and opened the bargaining “Size 10, never been on a foot.”

With a ho-hum attitude, the woman sitting behind the table picked up a sheet of paper and scanned the rows and columns of printed numbers. “Twenty credits,” she eventually announced.

“That’s all? Last week a good pair of boots was worth 30!”

The clerk didn’t even bother arguing with the man, instead reaching for
a wooden pole about the length of a broom handle. At the end was a white flag. She waved the signal into the air, and soon a man with a shaved head and wide shoulders arrived.

“This man is an evaluator,” she said. “You can negotiate with him
; his offer is final.”

Obviously
, the evaluator was conscious of the growing number of customers waiting in line. He quickly examined the private’s offering, and then said, “Okay, 25 credits – take it or leave it.”

Disgusted, the young
soldier mumbled, “What choice do I have?” and then accepted the bid. Opening a small metal box sitting on the table in front of her, the clerk proceeded to count out what appeared to be poker chips.

Bishop and Grim were next, the woman not even looking up from
her inventory sheet as they advanced in line. “What do you have to trade?”

“Ammo,” Bishop declared.

“5.56 or 7.62?”

“5.56,” Bishop responded.

The Texan didn’t bother to haggle, not really anticipating to find much that he needed or wanted inside.  He glanced at the handful of chips the clerk placed on the table, noting they were from a casino in Louisiana. He handed Grim his share, watching as the operator examined what amounted to the local currency.

“Makes sense,” Grim observed. “These would be very difficult to counterfeit.”

The next station was where the Circus collected a “non-refundable” cover charge. Bishop and Grim paid the required sum, each man receiving a stamp on the back of his hand.

“It’s like going to a dance club,” Bishop observed, the comment not entirely in jest.

There was music playing in the distance and the ever-growing crowd carried an air of excitement, laughter and nervous chatter filling the air.

“I waited to get into a club in London once,” Grim noted. “It was a similar atmosphere. Everyone all giddy about a new, cool place to drink and dance.”

“A party is a party,” Bishop observed. “Hell, didn’t Nero play the fiddle as Rome burned?”

“They had fiddles back then? I think it was a flute – you’re thinking of the devil and Georgia
,” Grim chuckled.

The final stage of the entry
gauntlet was a security check.  

Several large f
ellows were massed around the narrowing entryway, supported by even more serious-looking men with battle rifles, stationed slightly above in handmade wooden towers – each with his weapon at low ready and eyes darting over the gathered throng of wannabe visitors.

“But your hands on the wall and assume the position,”
a burly man ordered Bishop. He was wearing a t-shirt labeled Millington Police Department.

A moment later
, rough hands frisked Bishop’s person, searching for concealed weapons or other prohibited paraphernalia.

And then they were passed into the inner sanctum of the Circus.

Bishop’s first impression was that of a carnival. His senses were assaulted at all levels. Music and the background hum of conversation and laughter filled his ears, accented by the aroma of food and people. There was motion and color everywhere, the dense mulling of the crowd, lights, signs and displays adding to the effect.

After gaining entrance,
both men moved to the side, overwhelmed by the crush of it all. Bishop’s head pivoted here and there, something constantly catching his eye or ear and drawing his attention.

There were two young, leggy girls, both scantily clad in short skirts and low-cut tops, dancing in cages that had been elevated to advertise. Another man, dressed as a clown, was walking through the crowd on stilts and carrying a sign touting an eatery.

It took them a few minutes to acclimate, but the layout of the place was fairly simple. The large tent was the obvious center of the action, covering a space half the size of a football field. Surrounding that main attraction were corridors lined with small booths offering everything from laundry services to dry goods and finger foods.

The stall nearest Bishop displayed stacks of blue jeans and polo shirts, while its neighbor sported two very pretty women and a large sign offering “
Massage – 100 credits.”

The
y walked closer to the tent, peering over and around the passing sea of humanity that surged slowly around the outer corridor. Inside the Big Top, they discovered what was essentially a large nightclub. The rows of tables and chairs would have been right at home in any large bar or restaurant. Women carrying serving trays topped with tumblers plied the matrix of seated, smiling customers while taking orders and delivering beverages.